Tomb Lords Apprentice
by Newtinmpls
Summary: Everyone needs a mentor. Or more than one. Should it matter if they are dead? Set in Morrowind. Includes Brinne Samarys, Sul-Senipul and Llandras Belaal as semi-major characters, (none of whom are yet in the character list). Rating upgraded to M for adult themes. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Authors note:__Anyone who has read my profile already knows that I come to fanfic and computer games by way of RPGing. Because of this, however delightfully detailed the game's world setting, I envision it richer and more complicated and love to explore that. I've recently started a new character in Morrowind the game, and am having some problems with properly envisioning her. This story came out of trying to sort her out._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit. **

She took shelter from the drizzling rain in the arched doorway. From here she had a view of the seashore. Even in the murky light and the rain, she could just make out the silvery flash of slaughterfish. She pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face. Despite the warm climate she was chilled to the bone. The rats, the only flesh that she was certain was edible, had looked sickly.

Morrowind. An alien place. Nothing seemed familiar. Nothing smelled familiar. The fern trees weren't suitable for climbing. Wading through the swampy terrain brought vistas of glow-lit fauna, and clinging bloodsuckers the size of septims that left oozing wounds when pried off with the sharp edge of a blade.

She glanced down at her leggings, now much the worse for wear, having had many of the damnable things pried out of her flesh. Her blade had unfortunately left its mark on the fabric which had been none too fine to begin with. She was useless with a needle and thread anyway. Hang all the assumptions about elves being all about grace and beauty, she was much more comfortable with a blade than a needle, and while she wished for a decent pair of leggings, her greater desire was something in the way of armor.

Which would probably be chilled and cold if she were wearing it.

She huddled in on herself, wishing she dared to start a fire. Not a good idea, of course. Might just as well announce that the prey had arrived. _You are the predator, not the prey_. She could still hear Rugdush's gravelly voice.

Morrowind, she thought to herself again. As strange as it was, it had its own logic, and rather than fight it, she should be listening to it.

Leaning against the curved stone walls, grateful for shelter from the rain, she listened.

She could hear the play of waves back and forth along the coast. The soft patter of rain on leaf and more distantly on water. The occasional cry of what had looked like a bird, but she'd been assured had been more like a cross between an ill-tempered mountain wyvern and a manta from the shallow seas.

She considered the smells. The attractively bitter scent of the tree fungi. Bungler's Bane and Hypa Facia, the Altmer had called them. She'd trained long enough in alchemy to recognize their potency, even if she wasn't sure of all their potential. The sharp musk of Nix Hound meat; the creatures must have some sort of scent glands that released upon death. It was a surprisingly strong scent; not completely unlike the pungently scented hind legs of a deer. Used for territorial marking, perhaps?

Creatures that looked like sea beasts, or insects or maybe both. For that matter she'd been told that the pale little scribs were not only edible, but tasty in a sour way. Maybe she would try them, but not yet. How could you kill something that came right up to you and nuzzled so trustingly?

Through half-closed eyes, she noted the deepening dark. It was almost too dark to see the slaughterfish anymore, but now she could make out faint patches of light here and there in the water. As if there were some sea growing versions of the luminous fauna that grew so verdantly on land. She recalled the opening blossom she'd seen in the swamp. As she approached, the shimmer above the petals told her that the plant itself was releasing some kind of fume or scent. She wondered what it was, as the sour smell of rotting vegetation had obscured any perfume from the blossom.

Perhaps anyone raised in VVardenfell would already know the answer. Unfortunately in her short time here, she had already found that just being an outlander closed many doors. "Who could I ask a question like that?" She murmured half to herself, seeing the flower in her mind's eye with such clarity that she started to realize that she'd fallen asleep and was dreaming this categorizing of Morrowind.

"You may seek to ask me." The dark figure should have startled her, but with the weird logic of dreams, she was sure that not only had she been expecting him, but he had been waiting for her.

Suddenly she was standing. Or had she been standing? In response to his comment, she pointed to the graceful carved writing subtly worked into the innermost arch of the tomb. "Only the dead wait here, strange lord."

He chuckled, a low rumble that blended with the sound of storms. "And long have I stood beside the waiting door, hoping for a suitable student, fair bosmer."

"Cylsandra gra Rgdush." She gave him a half bow.

"Interesting. You wear a Bosmer shell, and claim kin with the Orisimer."

"And I thought you only spoke with family, and yet you are courteous to a traveler who has taken shelter on your doorstep."

She was starting to see features in the shadow; red eyes and high cheekbones. Hints of glitter here and there as if night hued gems had been worked into rich fabric. He stood taller than her, but then most did. She was small even for a wood elf. His hair matched her own, though, rich and red, gathered back by luminous green ornaments.

"I stay for duty, for what the living call love." The melodious voice sent tones of wistful reminiscence and sorrow into the air, as if what once had been love had now dried, leaving only the memory of loss.

She felt her heart heavy for his sadness. "I came here for duty, my lord, though in truth I know not where it leads."

"You must be true to that which drives you, and yet you will not long survive this place without guidance of some kind."

They stood together, girl and ghost, each lost in their own thoughts.

Finally the shadow lord extended a graceful hand. "Look closely." The darkness resolved and Cylsandra found herself looking not at the hand, but a ring it bore. At first she took it for silver, but the white was too pure. No, it was some kind of bone or ivory. Three stones adorned it, all the color of lighting heavy storm clouds. The central one was massive and rectangle cut, and below it were markings. At first she took them for a design, but as she looked closer she could see a double ring of tiny runes. The workmanship took her breath away.

"Yes it is lovely," He said in the dry voice of an instructor. "Now look with more than your eyes."

Her cheeks flushed as she opened herself to the magic she suspected was woven there. As she did so, the ring erupted in brilliant light.

Her first reaction was to flinch back, and raise a hand to ward off the glare. Aware of his gaze though, she concentrated further. Yes, obviously it was magical. Slowly she began to make out currents in the radiance. Focusing, supporting.

"It enhances." She murmured at last. "It would grant the wearer more concentration, more purpose."

He turned his hand, and closed his fist and the brilliance was gone leaving a silence so profound that her ears rang. "Come and take it." He said.

Her eyes widened. "Come into your tomb?"

He smiled, and it was both the encouragement of a mentor and the malice of a long-hungry predator. "If you survive to take it, you are worthy of it. If you do not," He paused. "It has been long since I had the sport of watching someone die."

He faded, and she could only barely make out the last thing he said to her. "Lord Brinne Samarys invites you into the waiting door."

A sudden gust of rainy wind blew back the hood from her cloak, and she woke abruptly. Wet, cold and cramped from sleeping who knows how long. Between the racing clouds she could make out the rising moons.

She slowly stood, working the kinks out of her muscles. She felt better now, more settled. She'd forgotten a part of herself in the slow miserable journey to Morrowind, and now it was time to remember who she was. It was time to claim what Lord Samarys had offered.

She faced the door of the tomb and twirled the blade she'd pocketed from the census and excise office. "You are not the only predator here my lord. I accept your challenge."

And of course it was coincidence that the echoes of rain and thunder sounded a little too much like laughter.


	2. Chapter 2: Thistle hates dead things

_Authors note:__So. Turns out this is not a coherent story, but rather a collection of intermittent snapshots. Apparently my brain works in "scenes". I promise, an explanation of how who met who will be forthcoming. But despite my arguing, this is the chapter that wanted to be next. _

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit. **

Cylsandra staggered forward. She could feel the sun beating down on her back, feel the sweat dripping down her face. It didn't matter. She still felt cold. In her mind's eye she kept seeing the silver flash of a descending blade. Hearing the rattle of animated bones that were long dead and should have remained so. Damn undead. Damn Ashlanders for sending her on such a ridiculous excuse for an initiation. Really, all it translated to was if you were obedient enough, or in her case desperate enough, to do this, and tough enough, or in her case lucky enough to survive it then you will have proven – no not that you are some long-awaited prophet (inwardly she shuddered at the very thought), no, all this insane excursion had proved was that she was an idiot.

She shook her head to clear it and nearly fell over again. Damn Greef. Instead she reached for the other bottle and took a generous swig of the milky slop that the locals called Sujamma. Keep walking, she told herself. She spun the loadstone on its cord. South. Just head south, she told herself. She nearly fell again, and only saved herself by jamming one end of the so-called bow of .. .of whatever the hell it was the bow of. Damn Ashlanders.

She heard a quiet chuckle and whipped around, fire-woven arrow abruptly on string. No one was there.

And faintly she heard the warbling shriek that told her that yet another in the ashland's seemingly endless supply of cliff racers had found her.

Irritated beyond endurance, she snapped at the damn bird. "Really? You want to eat me? How do you think that's going to go?"

The flyer back winged abruptly. Too late, Cylsandra realized that she'd not just spoken her thoughts aloud, she'd sent them out to the creature. Who, despite being uglier than a turkey vulture, was apparently also one of the many creatures animals cherished and watched over by Y'ffre.

"My eggs." Came the hesitant reply. "I must feed them when they break shell."

Cylsandra closed her eyes. Saying nothing, she dumped her pack and produced the last of the mud crab meat that she'd meant for herself. She draped it across the end of the bow and held it up.

A grateful chirring greeted the offering, and with surprising delicacy, the racer hovered low enough to grab the meat in her beak. She winged away, barely burdened by a slab of crab that would have meant four or five meals for the exhausted bosmer.

Looking down to gather up her supplies, Cylsandra noted that she'd inadvertently tipped over the sujamma. The last of it was just soaking into the cracked dried earth. "Daedra bless it." She muttered, and then shut her mouth. The last thing she needed was to say something that might inadvertently wake, or summon or even annoy yet another dead thing.

Again she had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her, and worse, that they found her amusing.

Glaring around, she saw nothing. Heard nothing. Using the damn bow of whatever as a staff, she continued on her miserable way to Maar Gan.

It was late in the day when she got there. She was sweaty and filthy, and she'd lost track of time. She wasn't even sure what day it was. Standing at the bottom of the ramp to the strider, she swore under her breath, and then invoked one of the amulet's she'd managed cram some magicka into. She lifted just off the ground, and instead of actually walking, she merely propelled herself by her toes. Sweet relief. Why hadn't she been doing this all along? Oh wait, that's right. She was an idiot.

The strider's travel compartment was already half-filled with crates, hovered over by an anxious looking younger Bosmer with clothing that had seen better days but was now greyed with the endless ash. His companion was an excessively muscled R'gatta whose subtly dismissive attentiveness marked him as a temporary hireling. Near the side, a place with a pretty good view stood a group of four legionnaires; Cylsandra made a point of steering clear of them. She found a spot at the back.

"Where would you like to go?" No one could do a verbal sneer like a dunmer.

"Balmorra." She answered, and at his expression added sharply. "I know, I know, by way of Ald'run."

He gave her a smile with no warmth. "Unfortunately, bosmer, it will be by way of Gnisis and then Ald'run." At her sharp glare, he gestured to the harried looking bosmer. "The trip to Gnisis has already been hired."

As she looked, the bosmer's attention moved from the collection of weapons strapped across her pack to her face, and whatever he saw there drained most of the color from his own. "Palagorn Madach, at your service." He extended a hand, which would almost have seemed friendly if it hadn't been trembling.

It occurred to Cylsandra that this was not the reaction she usually got from fellow bosmer. She wondered what she looked like. Then she realized that she didn't really care. By the time she got around to deciding to return Palagorn's greeting, he was deep in conversation with one of the legionnaires.

Had she fallen asleep? That would never do in a place like this. She took another swig of greef.

Eventually the strider started out. The journey became a blur of rocking travel, half-slumber interrupted by images of silver-wielding dead. The first time she fell soundly enough asleep to dream, she was woken by something grabbing at her. Something cold and clammy and by the time she woke enough to realize that she'd been dreaming, she had a blade to the throat of the dunmer pilgrim that had been fool enough to try and wake her.

It was dark. And raining. Which explained the cold and clammy part.

Carefully she sheathed her weapon. The pilgrim backed away.

She poured part of a draught of invigoration into the last of the greef and took another swig. Not a good idea to nap here. She settled herself into the corner again. This time sitting right on one of the hilt of a weapon that one of the damnably not-dead-enough creatures had wielded. That should keep her awake.

The journey became a blur of not-sleeping, occasionally interrupted by rearranging the strider, or changing to another one. She kept drinking the vile mixture she created and it kept her awake. Barely.

By the time she heard the caravaner announce they had actually arrived in Balmorra, Cylsandra was cramped, tired and exhausted. She wanted a bed. A soft bed. And a bath – a very very hot bath would be good too.

She staggered to her feet, and onto the platform near the strider, distantly aware that all the other passengers were giving her plenty of space. She wasn't sure if she just looked crazy or if enough days of no bathing had made her smell worse than the marshes of Seeyda Neen.

She could hear the low voices of dunmer conversation as she disembarked. Not the harsh tones of the ashlanders, but the more refined speech of the great houses. She half-smiled. Maybe it was in response to the smile, but she felt a vaguely familiar hand at her elbow.

"I could make a special trip-" The grip tightened. "Cylsandra! Nchow – what have you done to yourself?"

She looked up into familiar ruby eyes. "Selvil? I must be in Balmorra." Right. She'd known that of course. That's why she'd gotten off the strider. She had to report to Caius. He was probably already irritated that she'd taken so long to get here. How did he know half the things he did? Better not to ask.

"Cylsandra?" Another voice, also familiar. She turned to meet the concerned gaze of Llandras Belaal. As always, she felt an impish urge to tug on his goatee. Something about his excessive formality in public just brought out the worst in her. Okay, she was really really tired.

Almost mechanically, she raised the jug of greef-and-invigoration to take another swig.

Llandras easily interrupted her and taking the jug, gave a whiff. "What?" He frowned in concentration. "Boethia bless me what have you been drinking?"

Before she could answer that, he shook his head. "Never mind. You look like a trip to Oblivion and back."

Selvil stepped forward. "The strider won't be going anywhere for a bit." He picked up the collection of pack and weapons that Cylsandra didn't actually remember setting down. "Lead on to the Eight Plates."

Cylsandra hadn't managed to process that comment, when she was abruptly scooped up and put over Llandras' shoulder. She was about to complain, but was immediately distracted by the view. "You have a nice backside." She said. Oops.

He chuckled as he moved easily down the stairs, apparently unencumbered by carrying a bosmer over one shoulder. "I have a nice everything, outlander."

He smelled good too. Which reminded her that she probably didn't.

She enjoyed the ride in a fuzzy sort of way, and eventually sort of half-woke to find herself in a tub full of hot water with a very talented dunmer lass either massaging her scalp, or washing her hair, or maybe both. It felt wonderful, and Cylsandra meant to tell her that, or thank her, or maybe both, but somehow she never got around to it.

Then she was garbed in something soft and clean. Clean! She was fed spoonfuls of something good, but she was so tired that she wasn't even sure who was doing it or what she was eating. She dropped off to sleep feeling full, and clean and safe.

Llandras' voice followed her into sleep. "We'll talk later, bosmer, and you can think of some way to pay me back for all my attention."

A lovely tingle of interest in having _that_ conversation was the last thing she remembered.

A flash of silver. She threw herself back, landing on hard stone. Something cracked and she wasn't sure if it was bone, or just the chip of rock that flew from the skeleton's missed strike. Silver gleamed inches from her face. She raised her hands, calling with all her power, and a red swirl of fiery energy opened a path for the shrieking daedra she'd summoned.

For a moment she felt relief. And then she could make out two more of the fleshless warriors approaching. She was almost out of potions. She was almost out of magicka. She wasn't going to make it.

Something had grabbed her, and was shaking her. She didn't have a weapon. She was trapped in coils of – in coils of …

She woke enough to realize she was wrapped in the blankets. She'd somehow twisted them around her in her sleep. She was drenched with sweat, shaking and panting.

Holding her by the shoulders was Llandras. He was backlit by the window behind him. The sun was just setting, and it gave his clothing a ruddy cast.

"Are you awake?" He asked.

She nodded, and tried to catch her breath. "I hate dead things." She muttered. "It's just not natural."

He chuckled. "Is this where you tell me of your adventures? Or is this when you tell me that you can't talk about it?"

"Well, regardless of what I can or can't say to who, I am going to tell you that I hate politics, I hate dead things that don't stay dead, and yes there are parts I can't talk about, but when it's all over I'm going to find myself a forest that doesn't have any ash dust and doesn't smell like swamp and I'm going to stay there for about twenty years."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you say now, bosmer, but you have become part of Morrowind. We know our own." With one hand he gently traced her jawline. "You belong here, flame-haired mer."

For absolutely no reason she thought of the crab steak she'd given to the cliff racer. Defensively she said. "Now just because I may have been occasionally kind to one of Y'ffre's creatures-"

"The mud crab you rescued?"

"No." She said, and then instantly regretted it.

"The sick Kagouti you cured?"

She felt her cheeks redden. "No, no not that one."

His fingertips wandered down to her collarbone. "Sweet bosmer, you cannot deny-."

And then he went still. His expression faded. It was as if he'd left, but without physically going anywhere.

She swallowed.

"You cannot deny." He whispered. His voice didn't sound right.

"You cannot deny your Lord, Dagoth Ur." His voice was stronger now, but something about it made the skin all along Cylsandra's back crawl. She held still, as if watching some predator. She was still overly aware of his fingertips, but the touch sent chills and goose bumps across her skin.

Llervas-who-was-not-Llervas tilted his head, and offered a horrible rictus of a smile. "The Sixth House is risen, and Dagoth is its glory."

Her eyes wide, she didn't dare say anything.

Perhaps because she didn't respond, he turned away and stood up. Normally most mer were graceful, but there was something eerie about the way he moved now. He went to the door, and out, not bothering to close it behind him.

What the hell was going on? "Azura bless me. I've got to do something." She said, half to herself.

"Blessed … maybe. Chosen … perhaps." The voice came very clearly from her pouch, and at the same time it resonated not in her ears, but in her head.

She scrabbled to dump out the pouch, and several gems fell out of it, one in particular like a large pale teardrop, just happened to land in her lap.

"I couldn't very well just let you have my bow without making sure you used it properly." The tone was slightly chastising. The accent was unmistakably ashlander.

Her jaw dropped. When she finally managed to say something, it was half a name, and half a question. "Sul-Senipul?"

"You could feel me watching you, adopted clan-friend. Next time ask more questions sooner."

She gestured toward the doorway. Then realizing that it was open, she took up the fist-sized teardrop-shaped gem in her hand and walked over to close it. The gem was warm, and holding it she could distantly smell .. perfume? Fire petal.

"What," She tried to form a coherent question. "What happened to him?"

A soft sigh answered her. "His ancestors called him to service, young clan-friend. The call was strong enough that he had no choice but to answer it."

She shook her head. That didn't make any sense.

"What are we taught is the difference between the Aedra and the Daedra?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Humor an old merchant, young one."

_Merchant? That was interesting_. "Um, okay. The Aedra have no bodies. The Daedra have bodies and can be killed, but they do not die permanently, they just go back to Oblivion for a time." She was frowning. What did this have to do with anything?

"And what happens when a mortal is killed."

"Well their spirit goes…" Actually she wasn't totally sure where spirits went. To be with the Aedra? The Daedra?

"You wear the shell of a bosmer. Are you a bosmer always?"

"I. Well." She had no idea. "Well how would I know?" A sudden thought struck her. "Do you know?"

A thoughtful silence was her only reply at first. "I still think of myself as a dunmer. However I have agreed to stay for the moment on Nirn, and so what I am is still shaped by what I most recently was."

Softly she said. "I was taught that Malacath looks beyond the shape."

"And what does he see?"

"The inside." It should have been a stronger assertion, but she was not trained in any temple and this wasn't making a whole lot of sense.

"If you were trained in a temple," Sul-Senipul clearly had no trouble following her thoughts regardless of if she spoke them aloud or not. "You might not really question what you had been taught."

Without thinking about it she argued. "Well, the dissident persists might disagree with that."

"True." He said, and that one word was heavy with expectation.

She sat on the edge of the bed, resting her head in her hands. "I hate politics." She said quietly. But even as she said it, she knew that if she could do something to help Llervas, then she was going to.

"What you disdain for duty, you would do for love."

"I don't know him well enough to love him." And for that matter, the idea of a dunmer having anything other than a light fling with an outlander was unlikely in the extreme.

"Compassion, then."

"Or stupidity."

He chuckled. "Is that not the recipe for a hero?"

She sighed. Out of the corner of her pack, she could see the papers she'd gotten from Nibani Maesa. "Hasphat told me once that Caius is looking for a hero."

A dry chuckle was her only answer.


	3. Chapter 3: Pleasant Interlude

_A_

**_Authors note:_**** _This story just does not want to be told in chronological order. I promise you will see how they met. Warning: this chapter includes adult content._**

**_Eight Plates – the name is based on the traditionally detailed and formal dinner which consists of eight separate and specific courses. When matters of import are to be discussed, the parties assemble and over the course of the meal the issue is explored. By the final course, a resolution (at a minimum, a temporary one) is decided upon. In practice this means that some of the meals are very very long (think days). Publican Ralaal's establishment is considered one of the finest in Vvardenfell, and 'neutral ground' for many disparate groups who might normally not meet without some kind of violence. _**

**_Cultural night – As part of the Tribunal's gracious permission for outlanders to set foot on the lands of the dunmer, it is generally presumed that the ultimate goal of anyone actually coming to Vvardenfell is to 'become civilized' which of course means becoming culturally acclimated. Publican Ralaal (at the behest of, and with the financial support of certain nobles from House Hlaalu) hosts regular events to highlight (and teach) certain desirable aspects of dunmer culture for the edification of outlanders. On these nights prices are discounted, and being that her chefs are among the finest, the Inn is invariably packed. This does not mean that all performances are by dunmer – it means that all performances must satisfy the high standards and personal eccentricities of Publican Ralaal._**

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit. **

~~Cultural Night at the Eight Plates~~

An abrupt swirl of rich fabrics and a wave of perfume heralded the arrival of the exquisitely garbed Dulnea Ralaal. "Everything satisfactory, dear outlander?"

The juxtaposition of those last two words was enough for Cylsandra to very nearly choke on her bite of parchment-thin sliced Alit. Hastily she swallowed, and looked up at the preening publican. "Amazing." Which was true in a positive way for the food.

"Do consider an after dinner beverage. After the music, Voruse Bethrimo of the buoyant armigers will grace us with some of his poetry."

There was an abrupt sound from her left, and the bosmer glanced over. At the table next to hers, a well-dressed pair of young dunmer girls had been ignoring their food all evening. Apparently even the lure of mouthwatering spiced alit over saltrice was not enough to hold their attention. They had spent the evening glancing around the room and make disparaging comments about everyone who was not a dunmer. They looked to publican with wide eyed anticipation.

"Voruse Bethrimo?" The voice of the raven-haired one held mixed hope and disbelief. Up till now, Cylsandra hadn't been sure that she was capable of making a non-sarcastic comment.

Dulnea swirled in their direction, "Why yes. He's a _personal_ friend of mine."

Cylsandra was content to completely ignore the ensuing discussion about who knew who and which people _just had to meet_ which other people.

A test scale on a slightly out-of-tune lute caught her attention.

A slightly raised dais at one end of the room now had four people setting up chairs and arranging various instruments. The players all wore longish sleeveless vests embroidered in shimmering grey and silver with touches of red here and there. It made Cylsandra think of stars or parts of the ashlands at night. Two were imperial; a younger man with very short brown hair was tuning a lute. Cylsandra looked more closely at it and frowned thoughtfully. There was a strange pattern of the dark, almost black grain. Was it made of chitin?

The other imperial, a man with an ageless sort of face and pale hair, had an instrument in front of him that was nothing Cylsandra had ever seen. It was a square shape, and covered with small lengths of polished ... something ... wood or chitin maybe? She couldn't quite make out. When the lute player nodded to him, he picked up tiny hammers and played a rapid scale.

It was something like the wind chimes at the ashlander camp, but louder and more overtly musical. She'd never heard anything like it. The lute player nodded and they ran through a few scales together. Not exactly together, but in counterpoint. Cylsandra's fingers itched and she found herself wishing she could join them. Of course her lute was still probably somewhere back in Anvil.

The third member of the group was an altmer woman. Her over-vest didn't really conceal the curves beneath. She made the two men seem clumsy merely by existing near them. She stood, eyes distant, silvery hair shimmering in a loose net that hung down to the middle of her back. She was holding a flute. She just waited with her eyes half closed as she listened to the scales.

The last player was an argonian drummer, who seemed dissatisfied with the first two stools he tried. Eventually he got himself sorted out on a heavier shorter stool, his tail-tip lashing back and forth in irritation. He wore a drum harness over his vest, holding three drums of similar sizes. From the differing shades of drumhead, Cylsandra suspected they might be leather from different beasts. Finally satisfied, the drummer nodded. He was pale in a way different from the altmer's silver shimmer. His scales were touched with hints of grey and green. Two rows of short sharp-looking horns ran along the sides of his skull.

The player of the mysterious not-wind-chimes looked at each of the other players in turn. In a soft voice he asked. "Good?"

The sound of the familiar voice finally placed him for Cylsandra. It was Hasphat Antabolis. Before this she'd only seen him in the practice hall, and usually he was either garbed in protective layers if working with weapons, or wearing little more than trousers if he was wrestling that day.

In the moment she blinked with recognition, they started playing. Lute and flute led a melody that filled the hall and brought smiles to faces. Chimes and drum started toes twitching, and then tapping. Beside her, two dunmer lads had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, hands extended to the eager young women. They wove their way, joining other couples in the space that was being cleared in front of the players.

Couples paired off in what initially looked like a ring. Then more people moved in and it became a five rayed shape. Two couples to each ray, their movements synchronized. The gleam of lamplight shimmered off of shining fabric and luminous jewelry as the dancers moved in a sun wise pattern. Arms raised in unison as each lady twirled, feet stamping as each lord momentarily half-crouched. Dulnea started clapping in time to the music. Scattered here and there at first, others joined in. The speed of the clapping, the speed of the drumming and playing and the speed of the dance all slowly increased.

The circling pattern of movement sped, nimble feet picking patterns that counterpointed the drums and clapping. The flutes notes wove higher and higher. Hasphat's hammers danced faster and faster over the chimes.

People all around her were staring to stand, clapping in time to the music and the movement. Cylsandra found herself on her feet, clapping so hard and so fast that the palms of her hands were red.

Then a last rush of chimes, of drums, a wild strumming on the lute and a spiral of flute so high that she almost couldn't hear it. Everything in motion, Lords spinning and holding their ladies aloft. She was so entranced by the color and movement and melody and beauty that she forgot about clapping. For that matter she forgot about breathing.

Then down, everyone down and the sudden silence was almost complete. The dancers held their positions, panting, heads bowed. Then after a few moments of stillness the various patrons started to settle back into their seats. There was no applause. Cylsandra was a bit surprised. Was that considered an undignified reaction? With dunmer it was hard to tell.

As the dancers made their way back to their seats, quite a few of them by way of the bar, the players settled in again.

Cylsandra found herself wondering if there was a bribe large enough to get Hasphat to teach her to play the ... whatever it was. She finished her meal by the second song, and by the third she was getting significant looks from Dulnea.

"She's got her eye on you, outlander." The familiar baritone came from behind her. She turned to see a gracefully muscular figure garbed in coda flower blue. The trim was shimmering golden thread, and the generously cut tunic was cut high along the sides so that as he moved, the snug fitting leggings could show off his muscular legs. The bosmer noted that his outfit as a whole was a match for the more simply cut robe she was wearing, though it was probably many times more expensive.

"Llandras. Sit, please."

He gave the twitch of goatee that served him for a smile, and set a bottle and two peach glass goblets onto the table. "I come bearing gifts." He poured a rich red liquid that sparkled in the lamplight.

The fragrance was reminiscent of Greef, but more delicate. She looked at it curiously.

"Shein." He said, and seemed to be watching her carefully as she picked up the drink.

She'd heard of it, but never tried it. A single sip spread rich flavor across her tongue and pleasing warmth across her belly. She made up her mind that when this one was done, she would buy the second bottle.

As another song started, dancers made their way to the floor, this time in groups of four. Cylsandra noted that each group of four was wearing similar colors. Not far from where she and Llandras were sitting, a group assembled that wore blue, shades similar to her own. How odd. She looked around, making mental notes, trying to see if she recognized any of the couples. No, four-ples, and all of them matched as far as color of garment. Was this another aspect of dunmer culture? It seemed unlikely to be random chance.

As the music came to a close, people dispersed and others took their places, but always in that same pattern of fours. How much thought went into this anyway? Now she could understand the appeal of having a seat on the upper level. The pattern of the dance would certainly be even more striking seen from above.

Llandras chose that moment to place his hand gently on hers. "Would you care to dance?"

She looked at him, startled. "I don't know." She said, and then it hit her that he was dressed to match her. She recalled that he'd actually been in Milie Hastien's when she'd ordered her robes. It hadn't seemed important at the time.

Wasn't that interesting, and a little flattering?

"Well," she licked her lips, "I hope you are a very good instructor."

He moved his chair closer to hers. "Once you see the pattern, it's fairly simple. That's why publican Ralaal chose it."

It wasn't quite as easy as he made it sound, but when they did step onto the floor, he was a good enough instructor that she didn't trip, or bump into anyone. The first dance was all about making sure she had the steps right.

The second was far more interesting. She was able to spend more time making eye contact with her partner, and she was very aware of the ways their bodies barely brushed together. The stylized movements were much more sensuous than she'd realized.

She begged off after the second dance, partly because it was tiring, and partly because it was invigorating in a way that she wasn't sure would be welcome. They returned to the table, and the shein.

Four more songs later, as they were just starting the second bottle, the players finally announced they would step down for the night.

"However as my personal thanks for the compliment of such skilled dancing." Hasphat's voice was pitched to carry even to the shadowy corners, "I offer one last song."

The conversations around Cylsandra died away, and many turned expectantly toward the speaker.

Hasphat had set aside the instrument he had been playing, and now held a flute. Into the expectant silence he opened with a mournful spiral of tones. After the first few stanzas, he was answered by another flute somewhere up on one of the balconies. The two wove together. Nearby, Cylsandra saw someone in storm-eaten but still lush robes lean forward and gesture to the argonian, who quietly gave up one of his drums.

Settling it carefully between his knees, the new player began softly, adding an under beat to the song. Still, somehow it was sorrowful. Beautiful and sad, and for some reason Cylsandra found herself thinking of a funeral or a memorial. Her heart ached, and she didn't know why.

When the music slowly wound down to silence, she wiped at her eyes. She was not the only person to do so.

As the instruments were gathered up, brightly dressed waiters with quick steps brought more courses of wonderful smelling food and more bottles of drink through the tables.

"So what do you think, outlander?" Llandras had moved his chair quite close to hers. The soft baritone seemed to be an invitation for her to lean in closer to him.

"Well," She searched for something to say, and came up with a question, "This," She gestured around at the Eight Plates in general, and ended up nodding to the dais in particular, "is supposed to engage non-dumner into dunmeri culture?" She let her voice trail off inquisitively.

He nodded, and added a bit more wine to her goblet.

She nodded her thanks. "Then why don't we see some dunmer playing?"

He gave her a measured nod that said he approved of the question. "Guests first, dear outlander." And the juxtaposition that had sounded so unnatural coming from the publican's lips seemed natural from his.

They were in fact very attractive lips. Which fit, since the rest of him was pretty attractive, and she was leaning forward a little bit more than she meant to, except for that she did mean to. Oops. Clearly the shein was starting to do some of her thinking for her. That might be bad.

And then he reached out and gently touched her right hand with just the fingertips of his left. Goose bumps made their delicious way up her arm. Well. This might be good.

She was about to ask if he really felt the need to stay and hear poetry. Unfortunately her question was cut off by Dulnea's introduction of the buoyant armiger.

With a twinkle in his eye, and another subtle caress of her hand, Llandras directed her attention toward the stage.

The boyant armiger's voice was melodiously low, and the cadence of his poetry was rhythmic and beautiful. And Cylsandra had no idea what he was saying, nor did she care. The goose bumps that had started in response to the handsome dunmer's touch had migrated everywhere. She found herself shifting uncomfortably, completely distracted by a growing and bluntly carnal interest in finding out what touching more of him would be like.

The first poem was an enjoyable verbal counterpoint to her partner's creative caresses. The second one went long enough that Llandras' attention was starting to be a little bit frustrating. As the third wound to a close, she moved her chair right beside his, and murmured gently into his ear. "If you do not fulfill with your body what your fingers have been promising," She paused, realizing that her tone was changing into more of a growl at this point than a murmur. "Things will not go well for you."

He looked surprised, but not displeased. "If you would care to accompany me." He rose gracefully, _by all the daedra does he do everything gracefully?_ And led her to the stairs, and up them to one of the rooms.

The door had barely shut when she tackled him against it. He tasted of shein and heat, and for a moment she thought he was going to try to slow things down and she wasn't having any of that. In between kisses that were rapidly becoming almost bites, she pulled at his clothing making it very clear that if it didn't come off quickly, it would be torn off.

They made their way across the room, leaving a trail of clothing, weapons and assorted oddments. As they approached the bed, she overbalanced him, and literally pushed him down onto the bed.

"Bosmer." His voice affected surprise. His body was enthusiastic.

"Raised," She climbed onto him. "By," she settled herself, and gave a long sigh of appreciation, and then added, "By Orismer." He might have spoken further, but she silenced his mouth with her own as she had her way with him.

She lost track of time, tasting him, grinding into him and covering his chest and shoulders with love bites. Eventually they were satisfied, if not completely sated, and she relaxed onto the bed next to him.

Finally he spoke. "That was."

She chuckled. "A respectable beginning." At his inquiring look, she added. "You are still conscious. So am I. At the moment it's a draw."

He frowned, clearly considering that.

"Raised by Orismer." She said again, and there was a deliberate challenge in her tone.

From the look in his eye, it was a gauntlet he was more than happy to accept.

By the time she woke, late afternoon sunlight was streaming through the window of the rented room. She lay there for a time, feeling the comfortable warmth of his body next to her. Finally the urging of her bladder impelled her to actual movement.

She met his sleepy gaze, and wasn't sure who had woken first.

He reached a fingertip to her jaw. "Perhaps we'll call this one a draw?"

She smiled.

"But," he added, "I shall insist on a rematch."


	4. Chapter 4: Facing Brinne's Test

_Authors note:__When I play Morrowind my torches go out after a while. Why are they always still burning in tombs? And what spins all those many spider webs that always seem to be present? Slight side note – feel free to offer a suggestion for a name for any 'new' creature in one of my stories. All used suggestions will be credited. _

_Orsimer – Formal name used for descendants of those followers of Trinimac who remained loyal after he was transformed by Boethia into Malacath. This transformation has several usual interpretations which are often described by Orsimer themselves as 'missing the mark'; however no Orismer to date has chosen to explain this. They are known for strength both in the physical and non-physical sense. The terms 'Orc' and 'Goblin-ken' are considered insulting enough to possibly require violence._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit. **

**~~Meeting with Lord Brinne Samarys Part two: The test~~**

Once inside the door to the Samarys ancestral tomb, she was standing on a small level area at the top of a fairly steep ramp. Down at the bottom of the ramp, there was another small level area, and another door waited. The walls were a pale yellowish. Bare. The floors were a darker shade of the same stone. Not quite smooth, but that was to the good. She could see all this because there was a lit torch just inside the doorway. Why was it lit?

The small entry room was only cool, but a chill shiver worked its way up the back of her spine. Cylsandra took a deep breath, and started slowly down the ramp, most of her attention on that second door ahead of her. As she moved slowly, attempting to be quiet, she looked around.

A few spiders the size of her spread hands skittered up along webbing that edged the ceiling. She decided it wasn't worth it to try and kill them.

Down at the bottom of the ramp, she paused. The only sound was the moaning of the wind. She'd already started to open the door when it occurred to her that she was indoors. There was no wind in this tomb. If something was moaning, it was probably something bad.

The air got colder, and she shivered as transparent arms reached for her. Frost formed on wisps of her hair.

Cylsandra stepped back, ducking to her right and swung the little blade with all her might. For a split second she wished it was larger. Then as it went completely through the pale form with no resistance, she fell forward into darkness, cursing inwardly. Of course; unless the blade was enchanted or silver, it wasn't going to do a thing to the dead. She rolled to one side, and only partially managed to dodge the shimmer of magicka that solidified into momentary fire and raked along her side.

Fire with fire, she thought, and extending her own hands and her own magicka, she called forth a blossom of flame.

The creature gave a high pitched shriek, and for a moment she thought she'd defeated it.

Then it lunged forward and down. Despite her mad scramble away, she felt blood flow where it had raked along the side of her arm and ribs. Red stains spread as she watched. She was bleeding from its claws. But her clothing had not been touched.

She skittered back farther, and bumped into something that made brittle noises and rustled in a vaguely metallic way. To each side of her, torches set high in the walls flared to life. More skittering shapes fled the light, some going up the ramp ceiling, others fleeing further into the darkness.

She was in a rectangular room, about a third of the way from the open door through which she'd fallen. Waist high stone monoliths lined the room, each topped with a set of graceful urns. She thought there might be writing on the urns, but she didn't really have time to read it. She glanced downward, and saw that she'd fallen on the long dead and mostly decayed remains of some man or mer that had fallen here. What armor had been worn was long decayed into brownish remains, as was the scabbard. But a gleam of magicka told her that the blade had survived.

Hope flared in her heart. She grabbed the weapon, rose and thrust into her shadowy assailant all in one motion.

This time she felt resistance. Sparks danced off the strangely lightweight sword, maybe not the strongest enchantment she'd seen, but enough to bring another shriek from the thing; this time one of rage and pain. A final hiss, and then it seemed to fall apart into a rain of dust.

Too wary to rest, she whirled to face the darkness, sword still held out.

Burning, hate filled eyes met hers, and another pale shape drifted closer. Frost formed at the tip of her newly claimed weapon, and spread along the edge of her sword, numbing her hands with chill as it slowly covered the hilt. The creature clawed sideways at her then, clearly intending that she should drop the weapon from her now clumsy fingers.

She stepped back, and her foot disturbed some part of the remains. A ceramic skitter told of a vial of something rolling along the stone floor. She wondered what it was. It sounded full. Would it still be any good?

She took another step back, watching those glowing eyes. They were the most distinct part of .. of whatever it was. Even so, she couldn't make out a color.

Out of the corner of her gaze, she saw it strike again, and ducked, stepping back, maybe just a little slower than she should have been.

Those eyes. She didn't dare look away from them.

The tip of her blade dipped just a bit. She was cold. And so tired.

The eyes were coming closer.

Back away. Just keep moving. Keep watching them. They couldn't hurt her if she kept watching them, right?

White shapes were moving in the distance, but she would have had to look away from the eyes to see exactly what they were, and she couldn't do that.

Her hands were cold. Her arms were tired.

The eyes seemed to be swaying a little. She had to move with them. The tip of her sword, lower now, back and forth. Back and forth.

In the back of her mind a little voice was screaming at her to move, to do something, but she had to keep watching the eyes. Closer now, getting closer. Keep watching them.

And then a mass of black legs and a heavy c_hitinous_body the size of a melon landed on the side of her head. Reflexively she swiped at it with a hand. The startled spider leapt hastily away. All the fear and adrenaline that the eyes had numbed rose in a wave that energized her into motion.

She half-closed her own eyes, tightened her grip on the blade and spun; arms and weapon extended. Three quarters of the way into the turn, the blade hit something, and a shock of cold hit her. There was another, deeper shriek and she struck again, not daring to look directly quite yet.

The sound of hissing, and taking a chance, hoping it might be the thing crumbling into dust, she looked directly.

Just in time see a collection of bones that shouldn't have been able to hang together, much less walk and wield sword and shield, smash down at her with a sword that was more rust than metal.

Her hasty block was barely in time. The blow drove her into the corner, and she hit the wall hard enough to make her ears ring.

Okay, yes, she'd known he was going to test her. He'd flat-out told her that she was going to die if she didn't succeed. She was not going to let some damn dead things defeat her.

"No!" She yelled.

Maybe not the most imposing of battle cries, but it energized her and that was all she cared about. She thrust high and then kicked at the damn thing's leg.

Her blade grazed something and drew sparks. Her foot connected and knocked a large bone out of the things lower left leg. The bone went spinning into darkness, but the creature's stance was unaffected.

Damn damn dead things that didn't seem to be affected by normal laws of how things worked and were supposed to work. "Y'ffre bless it."

The collection of bones and dust raised the heavy iron shield it should not have been able to carry and slammed it against her.

She went flying back into that same corner; landing on her ass, the room sort of spinning around her. It was still coming at her.

Hastily she raised her newly acquired sword, hefting it like a spear, and threw it. It was a good throw. She could feel it.

She'd just disarmed herself.

The blade entered the empty jaw, rammed into the back of the skull and with a spray of sparks, the creatures head went flying.

For a moment it just stood there.

Then with a rattle and a hiss, it fell apart into a pile of bones. The sword fell to the ground with a loud clang. The shield landed on its rim, and slowly rolled in her direction. A few feet away, it clattered loudly to the ground.

She sighed, and leaned back against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement up on the ceiling. Dark gleaming chitin.

One of the melon-sized spiders was sliding down its web at her.

"Stop that." She snapped. "You should be eating bugs, not bosmer."

The thing came to a halt so fast it bounced a little, right above her head. This close she could see the delicate legs, and a pattern of gold across its round black belly.

With a graceful limb, the spider indicated the remains lying on the tomb floor. "I thought you were like that. Food for many days."

"No," Cylsanda repeated firmly, "I am not food." Insects, especially solitary ones, tended to be very stubborn.

"There is a whole shoreline full of easy prey," the Bosmer waved in the direction of the door that led up and out, "waiting for you to hunt it." She knew that even when something appeared sealed to the eyes of men or mer, there would be plenty of ways in and out for creatures like this.

When the spider did not seem convinced, she continued, "rats longer than my arm, flesh oozing with juices. Mudcrabs, slow and shell-covered, but under the shell sweetness waits."

The spider's pedipalps waved slowly as she considered. "Perhaps I will follow you when you go, then."

Nicely vague. Obviously, if she didn't survive, the spider thought she would make a pretty nice meal. Well, it was as much of a truce as she was going to get. "Very well." So far Morrowind was not the most welcoming place.

She got to her feet, and staggered over to the vial that had rolled away from the fallen body. Carefully uncorking it, she took a careful sniff. Saltrice and wickwheat. Gratefully she drank it down, and felt spreading warmth ease away the worst of her wounds.

Approaching the body, she knelt to examine it closer.

It was short enough that it had probably been bosmer or maybe Breton. The flesh was withered with multiple discolorations that showed that apparently many of the spiders here had drunk their fill.

There were the tattered and mold-eaten remains of what had probably been leather armor, and the frame of what might have been some kind of small shield. Besides the bottle she'd drunk, there was another that seemed similar. That and the small sword seemed to be all he or she had carried. Or maybe all that remained.

"Y'ffre grant you a good rebirth." She whispered softly. "The blade you left here saved my life." She retrieved the blade in question, and carefully moved what she could of the clothing and remains. No papers, nothing that could tell who this had been. Nothing she could find, anyway.

She stood carefully.

At the end of this room, she made out an opening to the right. Doorway or corridor, she wasn't sure, but clearly that was the next place to go. Taking a breath, and keeping to the shadows as well as she could, she continued on.

Only to hear the hiss, and see the glow that told of more torches apparently lighting themselves as she approached. Great. Apparently the dead would always know when the living were coming to visit.

From the amount of light, it was a fairly large room. From the lack of clatter, she hoped there wouldn't be any walking dead things. She reminded herself, if it was floating things; don't look them in the eye. Stab first, ask questions later.

She turned the corner. As she had suspected, a large room. Stone tables, and urns arranged at intervals along the walls, and in the corner just to her right, a three sided free-standing sculpture. She could see carved metal plates on each of the sides; made of some deep yellow-gold metal. A faint patina of greenish-blue implied some sort of bronze.

A hiss greeted her and a flare of energies. As she'd half-expected, another translucent angry-eyed creature waited for her. She dove to her left, a shoulder roll that neatly avoided the flames it had conjured. They splattered against the wall, crisping webs, and at least two of the spiders.

That offended her more than the attacks on her. They'd done nothing wrong. She was the intruder here.

Anger fueled her energy and she called forth another bloom of fire, aiming it at the floating creature's middle. It twisted away, but not far enough and not fast enough. The summoned flame clung to it, eating away wisps of the creature's unnatural existence.

She charged forward thrusting the blade into the center of what was left of it. There was a silent shudder, and what was left of the creature coalesced into almost nothing and dropped to the ground.

She looked at her sleeve. Smoke stained and charred, but still mostly in one piece.

On the floor, she noted that something of the creature remained. She sighed and stared at it. It was probably alchemically valuable. And for that matter she had empty vials now.

It took careful scraping, and the most whole bits of leather left on the corpse, but eventually she had most of the coagulated remains-of-ghost scooped into a vial. It had the consistency of something that remained after a very sick person's sneeze, and it smelled bitter.

She sealed it off, and stored it away.

To her left was a door. None of the urns that she had examined so far had met the description that Lord Samarys had given her. So it was probably past that door. Slowly she crept forward. At first she heard nothing, and then after a while a strange huffing sound. Was something alive in there? She couldn't imagine a ghost, or for that matter one of the collections of bones making that sort of noise. She listened further, and decided that it sounded big.

She looked at the sword. Not a huge weapon. She considered. In the other room was a rust-covered, but usable shield. In order to get past this big thing, she was going to need all the help and planning she could get.

It took her a bit to get into position. She closed her eyes, muttered a plea to any Aedra or Daedra that might be watching, and pushed the door open. As soon as she could see legs, she started moving. Not waiting for whatever-it-was to come to her, she held the shield high enough to protect her head and ran at the thing, ramming into it full strength. It didn't give much. It was a lot like running full tilt into the torso of one of her Orsimer brothers. At the same time, she triggered the last of the energies she'd laid on the outer side of the shield. Fire erupted across the outside of the shield. Anchored there to a physical artifact, it was stronger than she could normally throw at someone.

Clawed hands reached over the shield, but it was big enough, and she was holding it high enough that the creature couldn't quite twist it's arms far enough to reach her. She concentrated, pouring her will into the fire, seeing it glow in her mind's eye. Brighter. Burn hotter.

The creature gave a distressed roar, and started to back away.

_No you don't_. She followed it, trying to work it into a corner. Hotter fire, more will. And it was hotter. She could hear sizzling.

The shield was hotter. After all it was mostly metal, and metal transferred heat really well. By the nine, she hadn't really thought that part out completely.

The claws scrabbled to reach her.

Surely it would perish in flame before she had to drop the shield. She refused to back away. Hotter flames. Keep them burning. She was panting now, trying to hold it in place physically while she concentrated on keeping the flames burning.

Dammit, her hands were starting to blister.

She let go; she couldn't properly call or shape power if her hands didn't work. Instead she took a step back and kicked as hard as she could with her right leg, hoping the shield wouldn't fall right away, and that her boot would be enough protection against the heat.

It didn't. Sizzling sounds and a horrible smell told her that it had melted into the flesh of this thing.

Backing away had also put her within reach of the claws, and it raked down her calf. She cried out from the pain, and fell.

It stepped forward, the shield still clinging to its torso, now seeming to serve as some sort of horribly distorted armor. The parts of it that weren't singed were wet, like raw meat. She could see bones sticking out here and there. She had no idea what this thing was.

She was shaking, hollow and empty inside. Calling up all that fire had been tiring. She scrambled to her feet, still backing away as the thing approached.

This time when it reached out for her, she blocked with the sword, slashing to one side. She'd used the edge instead of the flat, and it was even sharper than she'd realized. Enchanted steel slid through animated flesh. Its left hand dropped mostly off, hanging by only a thin section of skin.

It frowned, and looked at the place the hand had been.

Then it faded into dust.

Her ears rang in the silence.


	5. Chapter 5: Fallen Kajiit Sad Kagouti

_Authors note:__ Let's just say I play rather fast and loose with the whole "bosmer talking to animals" idea. I think that once a day is a bit ridiculous, and I also think there should be consequences._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind, or any of the other wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. I play with a number of mods, and when something specific appears in my story based on a mod, I will do my best to give the mod author credit. **

**~~Meeting Llandras~~**

In the morning rain that was actually more mist than rain, Cylsandra Carefully picked through the blossoms, hearing the impatient growl of Khar-gra-Yazgash in the back of her mind _'it's not just a handful of shrubbery, it's the right part, picked at the right time, prepared in the right way'. _She hummed to herself as she parted leaves to reveal the golden blooms that had not yet fully opened for the day. The morning was full of odd noises; the creak of fern-trees in the wind, the scrabbling of nocturnal predators seeking rest and safety for their days nap.

Distantly she heard a hiss. She paused. Not just a hiss, but a threat. "This one will see your blood." A female voice. It was a Kajiit.

She blinked in surprise, having not yet met a Kajiit on Morrowind. It was curiosity that started her in that direction. It was the sound of a blade being drawn, and a harsh dunmeri voice calling someone a "thrice dammed foolish s'wit" that started her moving faster, though still with plenty of caution. Rounding a hillside, still concealed by a red-berried bush, she looked ahead.

Under the dubious shelter of a stone arch stood an angry Kajiit. Facing her, with his back to Cylsandra, was a dunmer. Given her affection for her childhood sister-by-blood, and the unending series of insults that she'd been given at the hands of almost every dunmer she'd met since coming to this strange place, Cylsandra's first impulse should have been to help the Kajiit.

But.

The unkempt fur, the way the claws of her feet clenched at the ground, the fact that the pupils of her eyes were dilated enough to be obvious at a distance. All of it combined to scream 'addict' to Cylsandra's unfortunately trained eye.

Belatedly Cylsandra took in the tone of the dunmer. Angry, yes, but there was affection there too. Despite the drawn blade he was not attacking.

It was the smallest flicker of a glance on the part of the Kajiit that gave Cylsandra a clue to look further. Her eyes followed where the Kajiit's had gone, up to the top of the arch. Another player. A dunmer. His body language matched that of the Kajiit. They both had the strained look of someone who was spending everything on drugs, and ignoring any bodily need for food. He had a drawn short blade that shimmered with enchantment or poison or both.

Her bow was unstrung because of the weather.

As the dunmer jumped, the Kajiit leapt forward, ragged claws outstretched toward the face of the dunmer. To Cylsandra the Kajiit's move looked like it was meant as a distraction more than an attack. Which meant the dunmer on the arch was the real danger.

She raised her hands and sent ripples of lightning toward the dunmer. The spell caught him just as he started his leap. The bolt took him in the shoulder, spinning him midair. He landed chin, and then neck. He hit the ground hard, and lay still.

The dunmer facing the Kajiit reacted almost at the same time the lighting cracked, spinning low to bring his blade across the unprotected belly of the Kajiit. The end of his movement brought him face to face with Cylsandra and the fallen mer.

Bosmer and dumner took in the fallen attackers now sightless eyes, but most of their attention was on each other.

Cylsandra raised her hands, palms open. Glancing pointedly down at the body she said spoke softly. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I think he was trying to kill you."

A groan came from the Kajiit. She lay sprawled in a growing pool of blood, clutching her belly.

"Nchow." The dunmer spun away from Cylsandra. "Let me help you." Putting one arm around her shoulders, he held a small vial up to her lips.

She turned her face away from him. "Kajiit is broken. Llandras cannot fix this."

"Tsiya," He leaned in toward her. "You are not broken." His voice was fierce with denial. "Let me help you." He held the vial to her mouth.

She closed her lips, and meeting his gaze, she shook her head. For what seemed like a long time they started at each other. Then her eyes slowly closed, and her body relaxed.

"Tsiya." He pressed his forehead against hers. "Stupid, stubborn s'wit." He kept on in that vein for some time, murmuring a sorrowful litany of insults into her fur as he slowly rocked back and forth. After a while it became clear that much of his anger was directed at himself, not at her.

Cylsandra stood, watching him. Wanting to say something. Knowing there wasn't anything that would help. She remembered a similar conversation years ago.

_I'd rather die this way._ Her adopted brother's voice had been reduced to a wet guttural growl. The once proud and strong figure had been wasted by skooma. The filth encrusted semi-stranger in her arms was not her brother. Not how he was. Not how he should be. Looking up, he could see it in her eyes. _Don't look at me like this._ She shook her head at the memory. That was not her brother. That was not how she chose to remember him.

She stood there, lost in painful memories.

Llandras held his friend, mourning a painful loss.

Eventually he carefully set her down, and stood to face Cylsandra. Blood had soaked into the right side of his leggings and tunic, turning the brown to a dark rusty shade. Even so, there was a touch of nobility about him. High cheekbones, a well-trimmed goatee and the few gleaming pale green ornaments he wore spoke of a background of wealth, despite his plain clothing.

"Greetings. I am in your debt, Bosmer. I am Llandras Belaal." Most of that had the cadence of something said by rote. Then he really looked at her, and sudden recognition came into his eyes. Clearly he could see that she was no stranger to this type of sorrow. "You have," he started to say, and then stopped.

Rather than continue to stand there in silence, she decided to introduce herself. "My name is Cylsandra gra Rugdush." She spoke quietly, still cautious about intruding on his grief.

She saw a flicker of surprise in his eye. Ignoring it, she continued. "Do you need help transporting the bodies?"

He raised an eyebrow. After a moment he said. "You are new here." Turning to kneel by the dunmer, he put his palms out. A flash of fire poured forth, shrouding the dead mer in waves of crimson. The flames seemed to soak into the body, and then their color changed, to gold, to white and to a blue so bright that Cylsandra had to turn away. Eyes tightly shut against the brightness; she could hear the quiet murmur of Llandras' voice. The light faded. She stayed turning away. Sure enough there was a second bust of heat and light.

By the time she turned back, only ash remained.

He moved to the Kajiit and repeated the process, slowly gathering the ashes of each into carefully separate vials. Cylsandra wondered what tomb Tsiya would end up resting in, and if it would be a peaceful rest.

As a last farewell, the dunmer laid a hand on the spot where each had fallen and murmured something that Cylsandra suspected she wasn't intended to hear, so she didn't try.

He stood then, for a time before he turned back to face her. When he did, Llandras looked past her for a moment, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his weapon. Then he frowned in surprised disbelief. His grip on the sword loosened.

At the same time, Cylsandra heard a low grunting and felt a heavy nudge at her right elbow that nearly knocked her over. The grunting was familiar, and she turned and was not at all surprised to see a mostly grown Kagouti making wide eyes at her. When it realized she was looking, it raised one foot and gestured in her direction, first setting it on the ground and then lifting it up again. Its grunts got higher pitched and softer.

"No." She said. "I am not going to feed you." Oh that was all she needed; to get arrested or something for luring a Kagouti into the city limits of Balmorra, "and your knee is just fine now." No, no, no. She had to get rid of this one; there was no way she was going to be accepted as a pet.

So Cylsandra raised her arms to circle around her head in her best approximation of the kagouti head-ridge. Then she stamped her right foot three times. "This is MY territory." She bellowed as loud as she could, and leaned side to side, arms extended in the widest circle she could make.

The kagouti stopped it's pleading sounds and took a few startled steps back.

She growled again. "Mine!" And stamped her left foot three times.

Uncertainly it took another couple of steps back.

She snorted loudly, and started scraping her right boot along the ground. "Mine!" She bellowed as loudly as she could, and crouched as if to charge.

The kagouti made a bleating sound and fled as fast as it could.

She relaxed. _Good_, she thought to herself. Much better than having to kill the poor thing, or risking it coming too close and raising the ire of the guards.

Behind her she heard a sound, and turned.

Llandras Belaal was sitting on a stone, bent almost double and shaking.

"Are you okay?" Was he having a seizure?

He raised a hand, and when she could see his face she realized that he was laughing so hard that he had tears leaking from his eyes.

"Well," Cylsadra tried to explain, "I just healed her joints a few days ago, I couldn't very well just kill her. And I don't think anyone would understand if I let her follow me around."

That sent the dunmer into another paroxysm of silent laughter.

When he could finally talk, he wiped at his eyes and smiled up at her. "Thank you, Muthsera."

He had a really nice smile. The goatee gave him a sort of roguish look, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut a trauma shrub. For that matter he had really nice shoulders, and ... and he had been talking and she had completely lost track of what he was saying. She shook her head and tried to ignore the blush she knew was spreading over her cheeks. "You're welcome?" He had said thank you, hadn't he?

The twinkle in his eye said that he hadn't missed her distraction. However he stood and extended a hand. "You have saved my life and nourished my spirit, Bosmer. I am in your debt and would seek to repay it."

She shook his hand, and it was enough to confirm that he was a student of magicka, and a fairly powerful one at that. Good.

"I would ask for your help, Serjo." _Always assume the dunmer you are talking to outranks you_ Vodunius Nuccius had said. "Can you hold magicka while I spell-form?" She'd been told that despite the innovations in the mages guild in Cyrodiil, they did things the old-fashioned way in Vvardenfell.

"What an interesting request." His gaze became more frankly appraising. "Normally one would go to a guide, or some fellowship to do such a thing."

She nodded. It had not escaped her that he might have some sort of mentor that would look down on this, but hopefully it wouldn't hurt to ask. She said. "And with that, inadvertently, but inevitably, I would share my creativity with the rest of the guide. I prefer a more private approach on some occasions."

His gaze flickered to the ground under the arch for just a moment.

"Indeed. Some things should be kept private."


End file.
